


The Angel's Share

by sfiddy



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV), Plunkett and Macleane (1999)
Genre: American Revolution, Anarchy, Anyelle, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Romance, Rumbelle Christmas in July, plunkelle - Freeform, rcij
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4420706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sfiddy/pseuds/sfiddy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  Will, James, and Rebecca have arrived in the new world after escaping from Britain with their lives.  They find a place in society, but America in 1749 is in a state of upheaval.  Caught in the middle, a father-daughter pair of local French citizens find haven with the new household, and the attachments they form help light the fuse for a new adventure!  </p><p>RCIJ gift for Standbyyourmantis</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Angel's Share

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lizandletdie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizandletdie/gifts).



> Author’s note: My apologies regarding the translations. I used a translator, and we all know how magnificently they work.
> 
> This work is a giftfic for lizandletdie, AKA standbyyourmantis in celebration of Rumbelle Christmas in July.

The migration to America stripped away ghosts and bygones as surely as the wild seas washed off the filth of England. Within days of making landfall, Will Plunkett, Captain James Macleane, and Lady Rebecca Macleane were as hale as the day they left, thanks to Plunkett’s extracts and tinctures. 

“How are we to get an invitation?” grumbled James as they walked outside the hotel. “We can’t just insist we’re society and expect them to throw us a ball, you know.”

Rebecca looked around at the matrons and their somber gowns and laced shawls, tugging her cloak tighter. “Not dressed like this.” Her dress was conservative for English society, but hopelessly flamboyant here. “We’ll need to fit in.”

His mind whirring, Will grappled with their surroundings. People played less here, and a war had just ended. Always make time with the winners, but get in good with the losers. Universal rule. Will made a sudden turn and headed for the open door of the stationery shop.

“Rebecca, you know French?”

“Yes,” she said. “Why?”

“Because you two have letters to write.” Will clucked his tongue. “We’re going to get ourselves invited… everywhere.”

.

The local magistrate, Clark, seemed at first so a fine gentleman that he could barely tell the barrel of a gun from his sugar tongs. Plunkett had to admit he had excellent taste in pastries and got himself an invitation back for saying so. 

.

The lace of the matron’s cap quivered as she poured tea. “Lady Rebecca, how do you find your accommodations here?” 

“Very well. The Captain thinks the streets are amazingly well tended and safe.”

“Well, it wasn’t so two year ago. Our forces pushed the French back in the end, but not without us being locked in for days on end when they were close. Curfews and all, isn’t that right, dear?”

“Hmm? Yes.” The older gent glared over his paper at James. “We are grateful to the King though we hope we are not stretching his army too far. Should he need them, we are certain they could be spared.”

James smiled blandly and Rebecca sipped, wisely awaiting a shift in the conversation before commenting on the fine embroidery of the tablecloth.

.

Plunkett examined the man’s flaking fingernails and the roots of his hair. “Ask him if he’s had enough to eat today.”

Rebecca spoke to the man and listened carefully. “He says he had stew yesterday. Gave most to the children though, and he’s had nothing today.”

Plunkett shook his head. “Any veg?”

The man looked at Rebecca, listened, and then shook his head. “He says no, not since he stole a few leaves of spinach a week ago. His daughter liked the carrots in the stew.”

Plunkett sighed. The fate of the French here was no better than the poor back home. “Ask him if he knows horses. We need someone to tend ours for a few shillings a week.”

The man nodded violently and began kissing the hem of Rebecca’s dress.

.

By virtue of rank and title, Captain Macleane found himself invited into the fraternity of the crown’s local soldiers. By virtue of purse strings and brains, Plunkett made certain they started by attending the most bland and heterogeneous events.

Smart men never put their eggs in one basket. 

.

At the head of the crowded banquet table, Major Stewart poured himself a small measure of rum and offered the bottle to Macleane. “Captain, you seem to have taken to the colony life rather well. Have you considered rejoining?”

Macleane winced and rubbed his shoulder theatrically. “I’m afraid not. I’m not sure my dear wife would appreciate the life, and we have plans to settle once the colony is at peace.”

The Major lifted his glass and drank deeply. “The colony is at peace, and it will stay at peace if the crown has a say.” He eyed Macleane like a prize bull. “We could always use more of the King’s men to keep the peace. The colonists are cowed, and the French were defeated. We will crush them if they rebuild their forces.”

Murmurs of agreement spread through the room, punctuated by knuckles rapping on heavy wooden tables. Aggression thickened the atmosphere like smoke from a clogged chimney. 

The shuffle of a shoe. Macleane looked up at the slightly opened door to the service hall. Tap on the nose. Diffuse the tension.

Macleane rose and held up his glass. “God save the King!” 

With a rumble of chair legs and the bright ring of silver and glass, the entire room stood. _“God save the King!”_

Plunkett sighed with relief and ducked out the side kitchen door. 

.

The gray headed Frenchman who tended the horses was clever. Clever enough, in fact, to repair the small stable attached to the modest house they kept, refashion the saddles to better accommodate the sturdier mounts they had here, and gather wild and volunteer vegetable sprouts and plant them in a prepared garden bed.

Rebecca was helping him hang a trellis for beans when Plunkett found them. 

“French! Got questions for you.”

The gent came over and pulled off his cap, nodding at Rebecca. “He’s ready.”

“Do you know the local plants? Mushrooms? ”

Rebecca translated and listened carefully as the man replied. “He says he and his daughter forage often and know many edible plants and mushrooms.” She paused. “He also says he knows the not-edible ones.”

“Can he show me?”

The man chuckled nervously as he spoke. “He says he hopes you don’t mind exploring.” Rebecca frowned. “Does he mean what I think he means?”

“I reckon so.” Will pulled out his foraging bag with a wink. “Don’t wait up.”

French took Will Plunkett on a fine adventure, traipsing through kitchen gardens for cooking herbs and hiking out to a rotting stump with the best mushrooms he’d ever seen. There were patches of horseradish and mustard, wild rose, mint, rose hips, pine, and a dozen more he knew by use but not by name. His apothecary bag was loaded and French improvised a drying rack for him.

In her nightgown and a heavy shawl, Rebecca glared at Plunkett for rousing her from sleep to act as translator again. She sipped at watered wine while Plunkett unloaded his bags. 

“Tell him I’ll have a salve for his skin tomorrow, but that he has to eat these.” He pulled a clump of lettuces and carrots from a bag as Rebecca translated the rapid fire speech. “Fish, too, if he can get it. Or…” Will went quiet for a moment. “Can your daughter tend chickens, French?”

The man looked at Rebecca patiently. She set down her wine and shook her head. 

“Chickens?”

“Yes. The flies are coming in the stable and chickens will help when the weather’s warmer. Tell him his daughter can keep any extra eggs.” He dug around the room off the small stable he’d adopted as his personal apothecary and workroom and pulled out a burlap sack. “We only need three or four,” Will said, diving back into his foragings.

Rebecca waited, and Will slung down a handful of young sorrel. “He needs to eat eggs. It will help his skin. No doubt his daughter could use them as well."

Rebecca smiled and told the man what Will said. French crushed his cap in his hands and bowed, crossing himself and muttering.

Plunkett looked at Rebecca, who was chuckling softly. “What?” French crossed himself again and held his hands up toward the ceiling. “What’s he doing that for?”

She smiled tiredly. “He thinks you’re an angel, Will. Sent from heaven to rescue him and his daughter from murder and starvation.”

Plunkett shook his head. “Angels are in church windows, and I never saw one with powder burns.” He shoved the carrots and greens into a burlap sack and handed French a few coins. “Build a place for the birds, then buy some and bring them here. Send your daughter to tend them. We’ll buy a rooster when we need one.”

French nodded at Rebecca and Plunkett, taking the bag and money in his shaking hands before crossing himself again on the way out.

“Mad,” Plunkett muttered, laying out the mint and rose petals and leaves in careful rows to dry.

Rebecca stood and finished her drink. “You’d know,” she quipped on her way back to bed.

.

Dinner with Magistrate Clark was a simpler affair than Plunkett expected. Cold slices of beef piled on a tray with some cheese, some roasted early potatoes, bread, and beer was all that was set out. A few other men, local leaders and a few tradesmen, came for a few bites of food and to play cards.

Plunkett made sure to keep his losses small and strategic as he listened to their talk of weather, business, and local gossip. The men came, and the men went. Two stayed longer, and the table settled on a game of whist.

“Mr. Scott, had any trouble?” The magistrate laid down an eight. 

“Not terribly.” He laid a six and looked at Plunkett warily. “The inn is full, and they usually pay. Hard to complain about a few demands by the lobsters.”

Will plucked a nine from his hand and set it down. 

The fourth man stared at his cards. “The ports are filling up with more of them. There was talk. Talk of them moving out North to deal with the French and their allies there.” He laid a jack and took the trick. Started the next with a three. 

Magistrate Clark recorded the trick and laid a nine. “It would be a shame if they were to move out, lock, stock, and barrel. I cannot remember life before curfews.” The room scoffed at the dripping sarcasm.

“Wouldn’t mind not having soldiers taking up my rooms.” Mr. Scott gave Will a sideways glance and laid a king.

Plunkett eyed his cards. 

The magistrate was watching, and not just for the trick. “Mr. Plunkett, I believe it is your play.”

Knowing their eyes were on him, he considered his options. He was new in the colony and traveled in the company of an officer and his wife. He employed a Frenchman. Then again, the well placed and well settled never leave home, do they? The weather in the colonies was changeable—which way would the winds shift?

Will slid out an ace he’d been saving and laid it down directly on top of the king.

Magistrate Clark grinned and recorded the trick. “An excellent play, Mr. Plunkett. Would you care for a pastry?”

.

In less than two days, two cozy rows of brood boxes, perched on one side of the low loft, were installed and nine healthy hens took up residence in the stable. Will liked the soft clucks and coos of the brooders and appreciated their dedicated pursuit of maggots and flies even more. From time to time, a plump bird would wander curiously into his workroom and examine the corners, flapping to rustle up a catch and then stroll back into the stable, head jerking about like a marionette.

Will stripped fragrant needles off a sprig of new pine and dumped them into his pestle with a measure of oil. It wasn’t exactly proper apothecary work, but pine soap was a luxury. He was grinding a third infusion into the oil when he heard movement in the stable.

“Thought you were gone for the day, French.” He bore down on the mortar and angled it to the lantern for a better look. Silence. “French?”

A few footsteps. Another pause. Clucking.

Will snatched up his knife and edged to the doorway. Curfew was about to begin and there was no telling what he might find out in the stable. He got low and slid around the corner.

Sky blue and a touch of ankle. Basket. Oh.

Plunkett stood up and shoved the knife into his harness and the girl, woman, turned. “Miss? I don’t know French, eh, non-parlay voo fransay?” He pointed extravagantly toward the house, knowing he was butchering a language, and the young woman smiled. “Parlay fransay! Un moment?”

“ _Anglais?_ English?” she said suddenly in a clear, though heavily accented voice. 

Will stopped. “You speak English?” 

“Not good.” She hesitated, adjusting the linen cap covering her hair. A few curling wisps escaped. “My writing better than speaking.” She tapped her hands together as if she was holding something between them. “Many books. Well,” she said, shrugging. “Grand house, many books. House gone, books gone.” 

Will didn’t like the sad look on her face. Too much seen too young—it had a way of making you weary. Pretty face, though, with eyes dancing in the lantern light. “So, you’re French’s girl?”

She nudged a chicken and withdrew an egg. “Papa _nom_ is _Maurice de Chevalier de Villette-Mursay_ ,” she said softly.

Will didn’t know the French naming system, but no one with that many names was common. The egg maid was probably higher born than Rebecca. 

He leaned against the low loft. “French is easier.”

She adjusted the straw in the basket, eyes firmly lowered. “Maybe,” she said, setting an egg in the basket. “Maybe not. Not here.”

“What’s your name, then?”

Another egg. The girl looked at him, tilted her head, and smiled. “I am… Belle French.” Her smile grew wicked. “And you are not angel.”

Will’s usually swift tongue failed and he kicked at loose straw. He’d nearly formulated a few words when the sound of the church bells announced curfew. Belle handed him the basket and threw a handful of cracked grain into a shallow trough. Will looked in the basket as she straightened a pearl on a delicate chain necklace and settled her shawl.

“Miss Belle!” He called as she was nearly at the door.

“ _Oui?”_

“You keep the extra.” He held out two eggs.

Hesitatingly, Belle held out her hands, watching as Will settled the eggs in her grasp. “Thank you… em,” she blushed and wrinkled her nose. “Name?”

“Will Plunkett.”

Belle nodded. “W-ill Plunk-ett.” 

He felt strange, liking the shape his name had in her mouth.Her shy smile turned sly. “Angel is easier.”

The bell declared the last warning for curfew, and Belle withdrew her hands and took the eggs. “Good night, W-ill Plunk-ett.”

Another minute passed before Will went back to his workshop, where he spent the rest of the evening grinding the pine oil and deciding which of his herbs he should take to settle the fluttering in his stomach.

.

On evenings when Will was not at Magistrate Clark’s or keeping James from letting his tongue take him to the gallows, he spent time in his workshop. There he made poultices, teas, soap, infused oils and wood polish. It was dull work, but it became his business, since the gentlemen he met at the magistrate’s sold his wares in their shops or bought them outright.

Belle came every afternoon, spreading fresh straw or shoveling out filth as needed, turning the rotting pile often so it never grew too high or hot. Some days she spoke whether he answered or not, mentioning mass or thanking ‘W-ill Plunk-ett’ for his kindness.

He growled. “I’m not kind.”

“No worry, I won’t tell.” She hid a tiny smile and crept up to his side. Will was about to jump away when she slipped a feather into his hand. “Here,” she said, her face very serious. “Fell off wings.”

Plunkett knew he was spluttering, and it only got worse when she giggled.

.

Rebecca eased her way graciously between delicate chairs and sat, perching herself on upon a tufted settee. Ladies in sober linens lined the room, applying initials to handkerchiefs. 

“Lady Rebecca, I understand your husband, Captain Macleane, does not intend to rejoin the army?”

She spread the edges of her embroidery and plucked a stitch thoughtfully. “He is considering it, Mrs. Stewart, but he also has his family’s fortune to consider, and we understand there is good land for farming further West.”

Mrs. Stewart shuddered and slipped a lump of sugar into her teacup. “Savages. At least in the service there is protection. What can a farmer and his wife do against those brutes when the French are behind them?” Rebecca refrained from suggesting the farmer speak French. “The Major tells me they have plans for a new movement. When he goes with General Cornwallis, I will be calm, knowing that the entire regiment is in front of him.”

Again, Rebecca held her tongue, knowing that commanding officers rode behind so they could shoot those that ran. “Will you stay here in town?” she asked mildly instead.

“I may, or possibly leave for Virginia. My sister and her husband are there.” Mrs. Stewart paused. “ _He_ rejoined the army.”

“That’s nice,” Rebecca said, starting her next letter. “I hear autumn is lovely further South.”

.

Tiny cracks in Belle’s knuckles were raw and the creases stained red. Will told himself it was his years of study and care that caused him to dislike it so much.

“Belle, your hands?” He wanted to take her hands and examine them, but the flask he held had to be kept moving and he was already watching the hourglass and taking notes.

She set down her basket and flexed her fingers. “Soap is…mean?” She shrugged and picked up the rake. “Laundry.”

It was bad enough she trudged in their small stable, but she did the work of a laundress as well? Then he remembered.

“You can write? In English? Dictation?”

Belle slowed her raking. “Yes. Maybe need help, but can.” She frowned. “Maybe slow.”

Will dropped his quill and held the flask more steadily. “Good. Start writing. Raw linseed has been crushed, ground, and strained. Second solvent extraction is cloudy. Will proceed to third, then assess.” He took his eyes off the flask to check her progress. 

Her lettering was economical and elegant; her hand had been trained well, but she had clearly written enough to do away with spirals and useless loops.

“One more ‘s’,” he corrected, and she added it without disrupting her script. She set down the quill and resumed raking. He called her over twice more for further notes as he extracted a third time. Belle watched the pale yellow oil turn from murky to shiny and polished, fascinated.

“Is for?” 

Plunkett funneled the oil into slim bottles. “Cleaner, good for removing old polish and paint, but never leave the rags in piles or they’ll catch fire.” Once the last bottle was stoppered, he looked at the notes she’d copied. “Good. Very good. No more laundry. I think I found my assistant.”

Belle grinned, and Will had to look away. Bright things always hurt his eyes.

. 

French spent a few days making a ramp for the chickens to walk to the low loft, then rebuilt the floor to the higher loft and replaced the flimsy ladder with a much sturdier affair. Will tested it and found no wobble. It was anchored to everything it could be anchored to.

Rebecca translated. “He says he knows his daughter will be using it, so he wanted it had to be stronger.” 

French smiled lopsidedly. “Belle,” he said.

Will Plunkett nodded. “Good. Eggs?”

French nodded. “ _Oui._ Eggs.” He made the face that worried Plunkett- the one that meant he’d start crossing himself again. “Eggs good. Belle is come.”

After a quick look over French’s nails and scalp, Will decided the eggs were, indeed, good. “Tell him to keep eating vegetables, too. And get another laying hen.” Plunkett handed French a few coins. “More chickens, more eggs,” he said. 

French started nodding again. “Belle is come.”

.

She was late. Here he was, his distiller bubbling away, and she was nowhere to be found. Devil take the girl and her smiles. Just a skirt with nice writing.

The door opened, and Belle bustled in, straightening her sleeves and necklace. “Am sorry, church!” She looked him over, gaze pinned to his undone collars and rolled sleeves. “Where do you pray?”

He turned. “Church of England, but since they didn’t care to keep me, I think I prefer my own company.” They nearly hanged him, but he left that out. Will watched a dribble trail down a glass tube and shoved the heavy book towards her. “No use for it. Here, write.”

Belle took off her light shawl. “Always use for God.” She took the quill and started noting the position of the hourglass and the color of the flame. “God is love. Always use for love.”

Will eyed his assistant. “You were starving, scrubbing clothes in lye soap, and nearly homeless. What God does that to his faithful?”

Belle shook her head. “Not God. Men. I saw.” She noted down the rate at which the drops fell and set down the quill. “Then I prayed.”

He snorted, concentrating on his bubbles and drips, fiddling with clamps and the alcohol burner. “Prayed to lose your books and be treated like a dog?”

Belle took up her basket and stood next to him. “No. Prayed for angel.” She leaned over, lips near his ear. “Here you are.”

She lightly kissed his cheek and started gathering eggs. Plunkett turned back and halted his distillation just in time to avoid scorching the mixture in the flask.

.

Belle’s writing was getting better, and Will noted that she had a natural understanding of what was important as he worked. He deeply suspected she has read as many medical texts as he.

Right now he was making nothing more intricate than rose oil. Belle didn’t know it yet, but she was getting the best batch. Rebecca could do very well with the second extraction, and liked lavender better anyway.

Plunkett had raided the gardens of much of the town, snapping off a few blooms from every garden. It was enough to fill a large bag. Enough to use some of the milder oil he had to do the extraction. Not the linseed oil, though. 

Belle watched the stirring, inhaling dreamily from time to time. “Beautiful,” she murmured.

“ _Belle fleur, belle odeur_ ,” Will said back, mimicking her accent. She looked up at him, surprised. “You can’t expect me not to try, yeah?”

She blushed. “Always good to try.”

There was something in her voice. Something that meant more than butchering a little French. Like she knew that he’d only learned a few words, and that he’d especially learned what her name meant.

The water gently heated the roses, and the little wisps of steam carried the fragrance through the workroom, curling her hair and warming her.

Her eyes grew wide as he inched nearer, but she did not move away. Will’s nerves, the ones that were steel in the face of guns and bayonets, dried to powder as her eyes turned soft and liquid. He paused, unable to move, swallow, or think.

“Belle?”

“W-ill,” she whispered, and lunged forward those last breaths of space between them.

Will’s insides leapt into knots and unfurled like new leaves in the sun. She stepped closer, but did not reach to pull him closer, keeping a hand on the worktable. The other barely touched his cheek when the bell for curfew sounded with a rude interruption.

Her lips left his, and she hurried to get her things. Paralysis ran through him. She was just a skirt, right? Nothing to get bothered about?

“W-ill Plunk-ett?” 

He whirled to face her, her lips as pink as the sweetest roses. “Yes?”

She slowly reached for him and he leaned to her hand. She stroked his cheek. “Must go.”

“Please come back,” Will whispered, his voice scraping in his throat.

She smiled shyly. “Good night, W-ill.” As she left, her skirts swirled at the door, bunching a tiny bit before slipping out into the darkening evening to the sound of the curfew bells.

He might need to go to church tomorrow.

.

Shredded duck meat and pillowy rolls made a fine accompaniment to the Magistrate’s games. Tonight there were cards and chess, with chess partners stepping out from time to time, and the room generally rotated around where Will sat.

It was enough to make him a touch dizzy as he looked at the chessboard. Perhaps that was just the cider. Hard to say.

“Mr. Plunkett, you were saying you had an understanding of chemistry?”

“Aye, Mr. Clark.” Will examined his knight. “Studied for a time as well, but mostly self-taught.”

The magistrate watched Will’s move and nudged a bishop into position. “Any special interests?”

Plunkett took the bishop, threatening the rook. “Medicines, anatomy, and reaction products. I dabbled a bit in heat generating reactions as well.”

Mr. Clark smiled. “You’re a very intelligent man, Mr. Plunkett. Tell me, have you continued any of your work?”

Will watched the rook move from danger, only to see that the black queen now had a clear path to his knight. Lucky for him, he’d freed his own queen three moves ago.

“I have. Though I’m a bit short on chemicals at the moment.”

Magistrate Clark chuckled, and moved his queen to safer territory. “That poses no problem.”

.

Something was very wrong. Belle was often quiet, but it was the thoughtful quiet of the watcher. She moved and kept her eyes on his work, or tracking the movements of the chickens to see which might be ready for the pot rather than the roost.

Will assumed she had no wish to speak to him, after what had happened. After they kissed—she was a good girl after all–but the dark circles around her swollen eyes said something different.

She did not cry as she worked, but he was sure she cried somewhere else. They were not tears from hunger, for her hair and skin, once dry and dull, were now smooth and glossy. She’d even grown rounder, the bones in her wrists no longer sharply prominent.

She was sweating, obviously miserable in the heat, but had left a heavy shawl looped over her head and swept around her neck and shoulders. It would have been fitting in March, but it was far too much now in the late spring heat.

“Are you alright, Miss Belle?” He called from his work room.

“All is well. _Très bien_ ,” she said, voice wavering.

Will settled his newly acquired chemicals and packets carefully back into their heavy case and got up from his bench, wiping his hands as he walked. “Are you sure you’re well? If you’re ill, I can make you something–” Will trailed off as he saw Belle’s face.

There was a bruise on her chin. It made Plunkett’s fists clench.

Belle noticed, and tugged the shawl tighter. “All is well, _monsieur_.” 

Now he knew something was wrong. Mary tried to hide her illness the same way. “What happened?”

Her lips quavered, chin shaking as she tried to find words. “ _Chacals sales_ , disgusting dogs. No one helped me, _mon dieu_.” She reached for him and he was at her side, steadying her. One side of the shawl fell away and rather than tuck it back again, Belle held on to Will.

Plunkett could taste her anguish and, with shaking fingers, he took the shawl and flipped it away from her shoulders. Her neck and delicate collarbones were a morbid riot of dark bruises, mottling her from chin to the modest neckline of her dress and disappearing under the white linen of her chemise.

“No, no, no,” he murmured. “Oh, Belle!” The bruises around her neck were thin, punctuated here and there with ragged scratches and cuts, ringed with black and purple. Will carefully felt her neck for swelling around the lacerations.

“Mama’s necklace, pulled off!. _Il était tout ce que je devais. Ils l'ont emmenée, maintenant, ils ont pris cela aussi_.” Belle’s eyes were full, tears ready to fall, but she refused to blink.

Will needed to see how severe the bruising was, if there were any more cuts. He’d need to treat the ones she had, but if any were worse, he might need to scrub them. He flitted his hands by the neck of her dress. “Please, Belle, let me help?”

With the tiniest of nods, Belle gave permission and followed Will to his workroom. She sat on a stool and opened the very top buttons of her undershirting and pushed aside the fabric. Will dabbed at her cuts with water he’d already boiled, helping her with her shawl to preserve her modesty. No more cuts, but there were bruises that matched a man’s hand. She’d been held hard, and had fought by the looks of it.

Careful not to bump the bruises, Will wrapped her in her shawl and scrubbed at his face. “Does your father know?”

“No. Dangerous. Must not know.”

“Why dangerous?”

Belle looked at him, wide eyed. “Don’t know?” 

Will shook his head. 

“British and their soldiers. They, they…” she struggled for words. “House! Books! Mama! Gone!” 

The tears finally fell, and Belle pitched forward into Will Plunkett’s unprepared arms. 

.

Later, as Belle winced from the poultice he made for her (adding rose petals to improve the smell, for Mary always recoiled from it), Will began to understand the wheels in motion in the colony. It was not his final getaway, laden down as it was by the politics of the continent. The question was, now what?

Belle whimpered. 

“Be strong, Belle. It’ll close the cuts faster and clear the bruises. Your father doesn’t need to know.” Will patted the poultice back into place. Her hair had long fallen from her cap, and he settled it over her shoulder in a heap of ringlets. 

She sighed. “He will know.” She gingerly touched her neck. “Gone. _Je espère que Dieu est plus miséricordieux que moi._ I can never forgive.”

The bell rang the first curfew warning, so Will removed the poultice and packed a muslin bag with another. “Wet with warm water and wear it tomorrow.” He patted her skin dry with a clean cloth. “The bruises will be gone in two days.”

Belle rose and gathered her things, and Will tucked extra eggs in her basket and set the poultice on top. They both fidgeted, physical closeness and trauma changing the space between them into something more fluid, but less understandable. 

Belle stepped into the bog first, wrapping her arms around him. “ _Merci, Angel. Vos ailes sont un abri de la folie_.” She kissed his cheek as the first warning for curfew rang. “Tomorrow,” she said, and took up her basket.

Will Plunkett held her as tightly as he dared. When she leaned back, he bowed his head and relaxed his hold, letting his hands slide to her elbows to walk her to the door.

“W-ill,” Belle whispered, and ducked her head.

This kiss was no quick touch of lips. Belle’s hands crept into his hair and it was all Will could do to not crush her to him. There was no stink of wig powder, no rancid paint as the society women all wore. Only the tender slide of her lips, the scent of roses and herbs, and the pounding of his heart as it threatened to burst. When the kiss ended, they held on to each other still, breathing fast, foreheads touching.

“You don’t have to go,” Will offered.

“Papa will worry,” Belle said, and carefully buttoned her chemise completely closed.

When she paused at the door, she turned to look back, flipping her shawl to cover her neck.

“ _Bonne nuit_ , Belle,” Will choked out.

Belle smiled sadly, then left.

Through the night that followed, a single light remained lit in the entire house. No less than an entire bottle of ink was consumed, and Will Plunkett’s heart never slowed.

.

_Have you ever been in love, Plunkett?_

Will sat up fast, dizzy and gasping. He pulled a scrap of paper from his face and flung it back on his table. The candle in the safety lantern, far from his work as possible, was spluttering. In the dancing light, Will looked down at his papers.

Intricate and precise. Steps within stages and notations on maps. It was a masterwork of planning and execution—on paper. 

_Have you ever been in love, Plunkett?_

Macleane became dangerous and unfocused once he set his sights on Rebecca. Was he, Will Plunkett, about to be stupid and careless? If something didn’t drive you, educate you, or pay you, it was useless—cut it away.

Then again, every man solves problems his own way. What drives one man to distraction may drive another one to genius.

_Have you ever been in love, Plunkett?_

Will dug out a fresh candle and refilled the inkpot.

.

Will Plunkett poured for the magistrate as the man recorded the trick to the sound of chatter and the tink of gaming pieces. “You better pour me a double, Mr. Plunkett. I see I shall need consoling tonight!”

Will smiled and sipped his tea. “I have the feeling you tend to win regardless of the game, Mr. Clark.”

Magistrate Clark leveled his gaze at Will. “I suspect the same could be said about you, Mr. Plunkett.” The room grew hushed.

“Perhaps.” Will coolly settled the new cards into his hand. The evening was going well despite the constant complaints of local British appointees, redcoat movements, land use agreements and Indian relations.

The Magistrate passed Will a plate of ham. “Would you care to change the game, then? Whist appears to be too dull for your tastes.”

“The colonies are too dull for my tastes, Mr. Clark,” Will parried.

The magistrate looked around the now silent room. “Clever men should be careful. They are liable to do the devil’s work when they are idle.”

Will set down his cards. “What game would you suggest to keep me from the devil’s work, then, Mr. Clark?”

Mr. Clark tossed his cards away carelessly. “That depends, Mr. Plunkett. How high would you like to raise the stakes?”

.

French was red-eyed and blotchy. He stared at Will miserably, bursting forth in his native tongue until Will glanced up sadly.

A man furious over his daughter’s honor would have raged and lashed out. A man distraught and impotent with fear cries and shakes. Will knew the difference.

“He says he would rather die than let it happen again,” Rebecca translated. “He’s furious that he couldn’t help his wife, and now he’s afraid he will lose his daughter as well.”

Plunkett looked over sharply. “Belle mentioned that. What happened to his wife?”

French’s eyes spilled fresh tears and he gasped out words. “There was a fire,” said Rebecca. “The British set fire to his house and his wife was in the library. She was trapped, and died pushing Belle out of a window.” French fell to his knees.

“Jesus,” Will breathed, and took French’s measure. “He said he’d rather die than let it happen again?”

Rebecca looked at Will, tilted her head and put her hands on her hips. “He did.” She raised an eyebrow.

“Ask him if he minds the risk of death.”

.

Captain Macleane bowed graciously. “Thank you, gentlemen. I am honored to accept this post and will endeavor to do it the justice it deserves.”

A round of applause and table rapping commenced. 

“Good man, Captain!” Major Stewart clapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Don’t fret; we’ll break you in slowly. Now, I know you’ve got a young wife; your Rebecca is welcome to travel South with my family when make our moves West and North.”

Macleane bowed again. “My thanks. Please present this to your wife as a token of our appreciation. I had my man make this. He’s quite skilled home goods for ladies.” Macleane held out a small bottle.

The Major uncorked it, curious. “Oh, she’ll love this. Hard to get pretties like perfume oil out here. Ha! Your man must be useless as an attendant. We’ll have to replace him once we’re on campaign.” The major leaned over, motioning to Macleane to come closer. “I’ll make sure you’re near home for a while, though. Local patrols.” Major Stewart winked. “No worries, old boy.”

Macleane reddened appropriately. It had taken him hours of practicing with Plunkett at the mirror to do it at will.

.

A delivery of new hay filled the stable and workroom with a clean earthy smell. Will had been so busy putting plans into motion that he’d been gone the last two evenings. He hated it, not seeing her, especially now. The excess energy bursting through him worked itself out in the form of cleaning out the stable and covering the floor with the fresh hay, and loosening some in the upper loft so it could be raked easily later. 

Soft knocking at the door. “Will?”

The bruises had faded less than Will had hoped after two days, but they were far better than they had been. He closed the magistrate’s crate of supplies and went to join her in the stable.

She was ready to gather eggs, basket in hand, her hair hidden beneath her puffed cap.

“Belle,” he breathed. “How is your father?” 

She fiddled with a bit of frayed wood on the basket. “Angry and sad. But, something else… secret.” Belle shrugged gingerly, wincing slightly.

He keenly watched every move, wanting to soothe the last aches away. “And how are you?”

She lightly touched her neck and collarbones. “Good. Little hurt.” Belle held the basket loosely, no longer pretending to hunt eggs. “Thank you, again.”

Will stepped closer, afraid he might frighten her, but afraid to lose the chance. He’d bombastically thieved from princes, faced down gallows, and yet he was frozen in the midst of summer heat by another of life’s castaways. 

Less than a pace apart, Will had a better look at her neck. The skin was smooth, only a fine line of roughness that would fade with time. A few curls had escaped her cap and he reached to brush them back, maybe touch her neck, but he snatched his hand back.

“Sorry. Your, um, neck. Looks better.”

Belle took a final step, bringing them toe to toe. “Is better. See?” She loosened a tie and pulled the linen back slowly. “Much better.”

Unable to resist checking, Will turned up the flame on the lantern and sat on a stool to examine her neck and jaw. Belle’s breath came a little faster once he drew her close to stand between his knees. He lightly felt for the bones, their alignment, and for any tender spots. In the light of the lantern, faint greens and browns were edged by sickly yellow, made all the more sallow by the dancing light.

Will swept the loose curl back, only to find it wrapping itself around his fingers. He carefully plucked it free and examined Belle’s neck, trying hard not to think about what remained under her loosely laced corset. 

In front of his eyes, the skin pinked, washing away the yellow. Curious, he pressed his fingertips into her and watched the color return, pinker than before.

Belle made a soft breathy noise. Will snatched his hand away, panicked. “Have I hurt you?” 

“No,” she whispered, and put a hand upon his shoulder. “No hurt.” 

Will looked up at Belle, wondering about her sudden vocal change. He had been convinced that her larynx had been damaged, but then he saw Belle’s face. Really saw her face.

She was delicately flushed, blooming from her cheeks to the slightly loosened bodice of her summer shift. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder and then slid to his arm.

Will was afraid to kiss her. If he felt her lips again, their softness and her warmth against him, he couldn’t be sure he would be able to do the job. He couldn’t risk losing this focus.

But she was so near. His heart was slamming in his chest, his viscera fluttering badly enough that he wasn’t sure he could stand if he wanted to. Who the fuck wanted to stand when a lovely neck was so close, so ready to be stroked and kissed?

“Will,” Belle murmured. “Your mouth, _d'avoir manqué votre baiser_.” She stroked his cheek and his eyes rolled back.

“Please Belle,” Will managed to say. “Careful. No hurt.”

Belle nodded and tugged Will up to stand. “No hurt,” she repeated, and took his face in her hands and drew him down to her lips.

Will’s arms spun like loose maypole ribbons in the wind before settling one around her shoulders. With his other hand he touched her cheek, dimpled chin, and the adventurous curl that wrapped around him like ivy.

Her hair was glorious. The thought vanished once she started to kiss him. Few notions remained once he started kissing her back. There were none when she said his name in a breathy flutter.

The lace-edged cap, ragged from wear and time, fell away neatly when Will ran a hand under the edge of it. Belle’s hair spilled out, poorly anchored coils twisting over Will’s hands and down her back. 

They followed the sweet, clean smell to the stable, and Will lifted her up into the low loft. No animals bedded here, and there was fresh, fine hay everywhere. It made a softer bed than many places Will had slept.

Belle’s ankles, finely boned though roughly shod, peeked out from under the edge of her dress. The evening light from outside set her brown hair glowing auburn and reddened her cheeks. Her body strained to catch breath in her corset.

Will looked up into her eyes as he reached for her front laces. Trembling, Belle helped him with the knot.

There were already straws in her hair, and she looked like a sweet nymph with eyes of the palest sapphires. She could be a saint, too. As he loosened the last of her lacings, he imagined her draped in blue, blue to match her eyes, and did not have to try to catch the faint scent of incense rising from her hair.

Church. She smelled of the Church. Rituals and frippery he’d long ago stopped believing in, but was glad others did, because it was born of goodness and right. It was what drove the English in their quest to tame, it was the whiff of independence that stiffened the colonists, and what gave Belle the strength to rise each day despite her oppression.

She was a good girl, without her mother and taking care of her father. Will scooted forward and embraced every inch he could reach as hard as he could. He wouldn’t abuse her, not take advantage of her. Will propped himself at her side against the hay, letting her come to him.

The loosened laces were letting her breathe. Gasps became sighs, sweet soft sounds Will could feel in their kisses. Belle leaned over, crunching handfuls of tender straw in her hands in time to the movement of their lips. A few beams of light caught floating dust and lit her hair from behind, warming Will’s view as he held her. He wanted to grab her, crush her to him and wrap himself around her, keeping her hidden and safe. 

“No hurt,” Will whispered to her lips, more for himself than Belle. He caught the very edge of her tongue on his lip and felt his blood surge. He moaned against her cheek.

Belle kissed him again, harder. Demanding. She stretched against his side, pushing herself against him until Will wrapped his arm around her waist and guided her to kneel over him. 

He knew how this was done. They could both find what they needed without the dangers of coupling.

Belle settled her weight over his lap and bent over for a kiss, her dress bunched over and between them.

“Belle,” Will gasped. He tugged at her skirts, motioning to her to clear the fabric from between them.

She paused, lips glistening and swollen from kisses, her eyes wide and dark, but frowning. “Will, I-“

He caressed her chin with his thumb. “No hurt,” he clarified, hoping she understood.

Slowly, Belle nodded and pulled at her skirts until there was nothing but a fold of her chemise between her and his loosened breeches. Her skirts and petticoat splayed out over him, framing her in blue and a touch of mended lace. When she finally rested against him, she bit her lip and rolled her hips.

“Easy,” Will murmured, and ran his hands along her sides. He gently pulled and let the shocks and tremors run through him. Belle’s legs jerked, tightening around his flanks, and she grabbed his upper arms for balance.

She lunged for a kiss, and Will could feel the need in it, knew that she could feel the same in him. He wanted this so much, needed her to feel this dizzy, delicious spiral he was in, so he licked at her lips and tasted her moans.

Sweet and tart from stolen spring fruit, Belle was as greedy as he was to feel. She gripped his arms tight and moved along his body, sharp breaths quickening with their pace.

Will felt the stirring, setting his whole body ablaze. He reached under her skirts and stroked her thigh, supple and strong. She whimpered and clenched her jaw. When he ran his fingertips along her belly, over the shell of her corset, then tracing along the lower edge, Belle sped up her motions as Will felt sweat breaking on his arms and chest. 

Her hair was free, swinging over her shoulders in time to her mock thrusts over him. God, to have her would be glorious. He would touch and caress every inch of her, know the feel of her skin, the color of her skin under all that cloth, and the taste of her. 

He needed to know what he was missing. Will traced his fingertips to her knee and lifted the chemise enough to put his hand underneath. 

“No hurt, Belle.”

Belle’s eyes flickered open, only to roll back as he skimmed his hand slowly over her bare thigh.

Will Plunkett lost the pace, juddering against Belle as he touched between her legs. Soft, wet, slick and hot. Belle was so ready, she could have taken him, he was sure. His imagination provided the complete scene, and he could feel himself build until he needed no more help from it.

She cried out, slowing, as he stroked and squeezed her, arching his hips up to press with purpose. Will came with a growl, but refused to stop. Her pace became a powerful grind as she canted forward. An unintelligible polyglot of French, Latin, and English streamed from her until her voice gave out and she squeezed his forearm hard enough to bend the bones within.

Will caught her by the shoulders and eased her down until she was draped across him, hearts racing against each other, glazed in sweat. Breathless, buzzing, tingling, and aware of every muscle twitch, his own and Belle’s, Will gently pushed her heavy hair away from her face. It curled more tightly at her temples now, damp with sweat. He touched one to watch it spring back before his arm dropped heavily upon the straw.

The next time Will opened his eyes, the afternoon light was fading to evening roses and violets. His ears had stopped ringing and he could feel the straw prickling at his back and arms. 

Belle was still with him.

“Belle, wake up.” He wrapped his arms around her again and kissed the top of her head. “Belle, lass, come on.”

She sat upright, wobbly, and still on him. “ _Je suis réveillé_.” Her soft, sleepy eyes focused on him, unsure and shy. “Ah, my angel.” 

“No angel. Just Will.” He took her hand and kissed her fingertips. “It’s late. I think you missed curfew.”

“No!” She leapt away and struggled to move in the straw. “Must not leave Papa alone!” She thrashed, fighting her skirts that were wrapped around her legs and stuffed with straw. Chickens clucked at the disturbance. “Must go!”

Will sat up and helped her down from the low loft. “It’s too late, you’ll get arrested. But,” Will plucked straws from his sleeves and trousers. “I happen to know a Captain in the army. He can take a message to your father.” 

Will went to his workroom for a slip of paper as Belle began to clean the straw from her clothes. As he went to scribble a note, he glanced at his work notes. Specifically, her notes of his work.

“Belle?”

“ _Oui?_ ” She smoothed her skirts as she came into the workroom, blushing as she looked up at him and his breath caught.

He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was the angel. Real angels should have a bit of straw in their hair and their lacings loose. Instead, he plucked the straw from her hair and handed her a quill. “Why don’t we send your Papa a note?”

As she wrote her note, Will fetched James from the supper table. It was lucky that all the ladies and gentlemen of the social class learned French. It would have been difficult to convince Rebecca to ride out after dark.

.

James was back from a two-day ride around the town. The local officers insisted on giving their newest fellow a tour and briefing him on current plans.

Will shook his head. They were as stupid as they looked. “So the campaign is planned to move West? Isn’t that risky?”

James shifted a few bits of tableware and the salt cellar. “Yes. Open terrain, few settlements, and they’ll have to carry massive supplies. They can forage, but it’s unreliable, and the Natives can be very unpredictable.”

Will’s eyes scanned the makeshift map. He settled his eyes on the bread plate. “And the bulk of the first delivery? Composed of, what?”

James sipped his cider. “Dry provisions, building supplies, and gold.” 

Will smiled. It felt like time to attend a game night with the magistrate.

.

Supplies were stacked in the work room, and Will stopped working late at night for fear of candle flames and stray sparks. There was much to be done, and it had to be done before the light gave out since he did not have the chemicals for luminous lamps. 

Soft knocking drew him away from his notes. Without a second thought, he dropped his quill and straightened his sleeves. “Belle?” He’d been away the last few nights and had not seen her but once, and then only for a moment. With her father.

“Yes, Will. Working?” She set down her basket and perched on a stool to begin note taking. “Papa out late last night. Almost did not make it.” She straightened the workspace and held up a slip of paper, waving it like a fan. “Would I get a note like this from him, hmm?”

Will grinned. “Might have.” He gently touched her cheek, checking her bruises. They were nearly gone. “No hurt?”

She reddened. “No. Almost gone now.” Belle tipped her chin up. “Miss you.”

One kiss. He could take just one, then there was work to do.

Maybe just one more.

.

Major Stewart raised his glass to his lips and drank a mouthful of cider down. “Captain, I understand you have learned our main patrol routes around the city?”

James sipped his watered wine and nodded. Practicing lines with French was murder on his throat. “Indeed I have. The roads are in good condition and I have yet to see a hostile.”

“You won’t see hostiles around here. As long as that damn priest Leloutre and his rabble of savages and Frenchman stay away, you won’t.” The Major slurped a bit of cider from his moustaches. “Soon we’ll route them from behind, once we establish new forts further west to support the army.”

Will delivered a fresh pitcher of cider to the table. The major sat up. “Mr. Plunkett, I’ve been meaning to tell you that my wife greatly enjoys the perfume oil you prepared. She wondered if you could teach her maid to prepare it?”

James spoke quickly. “I’m afraid Mr. Plunkett’s talents are already well employed by local doctors as well as my own wife.”

Will smiled. “I have the way of it written down. Can the maid read?”

Major Stewart shrugged. “No idea, but my wife can.”

Will bowed. “I’ll have a copy to you by Tuesday next.”

.

A few local doctors were playing chess as the card table quietly proceeded to the next hand. Tonight, Will only watched, standing near the magistrate’s side. 

“So, they plan to work in stages then, Mr. Plunkett?” He flipped a card onto the trick and took it. “How wonderful.” The magistrate arranged his cards thoughtfully. “I suppose we should proceed then. Doctors? If you have a moment?”

Two severe, bespectacled men turned away from the chessboard and hurried over. Two spaces at the card table were hastily vacated and the doctors joined the magistrate’s game table.

“Gentlemen, the time is growing short. Speak with Mr. Plunkett here on the details and start sourcing _material_.” The magistrate looked over his spectacles at them both. “I have a good cold root cellar at your disposal.”

The men nodded, and picked up their cards.

.

Will set the cloudy suspension of linseed oil and distilled alcohol down on his work table to settle. It was the last batch he needed, and thank god, too. His hands were raw enough from wrapping papers of black powder and different metal salts. The alcohol and light oil just made it worse. 

If he didn’t finish with enough time to spare, his hands would nearly too raw to hold his gun.

A delicate knock pulled him from his thoughts. “Belle?”

She stepped into the work room shyly. “Working? Always working.” She clucked over him. “No food?”

Will gave her a tired smile. “No time.”

Belle shook her head. “No food, bad work.” She looked toward the house and pointed first there, then at Will. “Food for you? I bring?”

Will looked down at his hands. They were stained black from his work, and covered with sludge from the oil extraction. If so much as a speck of food got in the oil, or the black powder, his hard work would squib.

“I can’t touch food right now, but thanks anyway.” 

Belle looked stricken. “I know you work, please-” She yanked at a frayed bit of lace at her sleeve, irritated. “ _Je sais que vous travaillez contre les Anglais._ You plan, you work. _Je sais que vous avez l'intention de quelque chose._ I help, please! _Pour l'amour de Dieu, laissez-moi vous aider à le faire!_ ”

Belle walked around the table, careful of the flasks, and knelt by his side. “Papa says English, _répète, répète_ , and I fear…” She looked down. “Bad.”

Will felt his insides clench. God, he hadn’t told her enough, but to tell her was to put her at risk. If French knew a bit, just enough to do his part, then Belle needed to know what was coming. 

Belle leaned her head against his hip, stray ringlets glowing copper against his work breeches in the midday light. God, what if they succeeded, and French and Belle were stuck here? They’d be hanged or worse.

Will knew enough of worse to know that could never happen. He’d never allow it to happen, but that meant changing the plans. Plans were meant to be changed, otherwise nothing got past the first foul-up. But he needed to think, and he needed a few minutes to do that, because his head always got foggy around Belle these days. He found himself imagining which metal salt would make the flares match her eyes.

“Please, Will…”

Will nudged her shoulder with his elbow. She looked up, sad eyes wide with misery. “Quoi?”

“Kitchen. You know where it is?”

“Yes,” she said, sniffing. 

“I’d love some food.”

Belle hopped up and kissed him, cupping his cheeks with her hands. “Just to kitchen and back.” She was about to dash out the door towards the house when she stopped and came back. “Like kissing you. My angel.” She kissed him again and was gone in a swirl of pretty, thrice turned skirts.

Will shook his head, lips tingling. Were he not a meticulous record keeper, he would have forgotten what step he was on. He didn’t have space for this feeling—not right now. It was dangerous, dangerous to be distracted now. Things were so close.

Have you ever been in love, Plunkett?

He tried to clean his hands, but getting black powder off would take more scrubbing than his skin could handle right now. Will settled for wiping off the sludge, careful to lay the cloth flat afterwards. It would be no good to put the cart before the horse.

“Will? Back now.” Belle came in carrying a tray with some watered cider, bread, a sliced pear, and some sweet ham. She set the tray down on the side table and smiled. “Hungry?” 

He’d not eaten all day. The smell of fresh bread and ham made his stomach rumble in anticipation, but he held up his hands. “I need to wash first. It’s going to take a while.”

Belle frowned. She walked straight to the tray, picked it up, and moved a chair right next to Will and sat with the tray in her lap. “No, you eat now.” She took a bit of ham and held it up. “Now.”

A wave of warmth ran through him from his chest to his face to the tips of his fingers. Without thinking, he opened his mouth and leaned forward toward Belle. She gently set the meat in his mouth, eyes fixed on the movement of his lips and tongue. As he swallowed, he followed her gaze, transfixed by the pulse of movement.

Will licked his lips. “More.”

Color rose on Belle’s cheeks as she swiped a bit of bread through butter and held it out for him. Will took it, and lingered for a moment at her fingertips before taking the bread. 

Though her lips were parted, Belle stopped breathing. Once he took the bread, allowing his lips to touch her hand for just a moment, she sighed and took a deep breath.

He took bites of bread and meat, eating until his belly no longer gnawed at his ribs, lightly touching her fingers every so often. Just enough to hear her tiny sighs. Not so much that the moment broke. At least, not yet.

On the last bite of meat, held out in her fingertips like the others, he bypassed the offering and nuzzled her palm, smiling when he heard her exclaimed ‘oh!’ of surprise. Her skin was soft, softer than he expected. And… there was a fragrance. Sweet. Roses.

“You use it. The rose oil.” He kissed the inside of her wrist. “You are delicious.”

As Belle’s breath came in tiny bursts, she dropped the bit of ham to the floor and opened her hand to hold Will’s cheek. “I,” she whispered. “I have more.”

Will sat back as Belle plucked a piece of pear from the plate. As she brought it to his mouth, he took a bite of the soft, ripe fruit, swallowed it down, then took the rest quickly and swallowed it nearly whole. Her hand was still held out, glistening from the juice. With one move, he took one fingertip in his mouth, sliding his tongue over the pad and lingering at the crease of her knuckle before letting it slip out between his lips.

When he looked up at Belle, her eyes were wide. He worked his way over her other fingers, sucking the juice from her skin and inhaling the sweet fragrance of roses. Hands cupped his face, lifting his chin.

“Will,” Belle whispered, drawing him closer. His heart pounded as her nose, then lips, brushed his forehead.

He kissed her chin. “Belle. Belle, please.”

Belle touched her lips to his. “ _Embrasse-moi, embrasse-moi s'il vous plaît._ ”

With his heart about to blow out of his chest, Will wrapped his arms around Belle, careful not to touch his blackened hands to her. The sweet scent of rose rushed his mind as her lips pressed to his. She was soft and tender, and when she suckled at his bottom lip, he moaned.

Too much. It was too much. And there was too much to do. 

“Belle,” he rasped. “We cannot.”

“No curfew,” she said to his lips. “I stay?”

Whimpering, Will pulled back. “Must work. But Belle,” he began, “I promise you, if you wish it, I will find a way to take you away from here. I have a way.” He held her shoulders with his arms, touching his forehead to hers. “You, your father, we could all get away. Just say the word. Tell me yes, and it’s done.”

“Go?” Tears began to waver in Belle’s eyes. “Go where?”

“Away. Away from here. Someplace safe where they can’t hurt you or lock you up every night anymore. Just say you’ll go with us.” He kissed her forehead and felt his throat constrict around the words. “With me.”

His shoulder felt damp, and when Belle looked up, there were streaks down her face. “I go with you, yes. I want my angel.” She stood and threw her arms around him, the tray clattering to the floor. “Anywhere, I go.”

“I’ll make it happen. My sweet Belle, I’ll make it happen.”

. 

Magistrate Clark was pleased to see him, and held out a hand to welcome Will to the gaming table. “Mr. Plunkett! How excellent to see you so soon again. Please, come join me and our colleagues. I was just asking Dr. Bartlett and Dr. Hall here about available… _resources_.”

Will bowed. “I’m told troop movement will begin in less than a fortnight. How are the resources?”

Dr. Hall set his cards down. “I have one in the root cellar.”

Dr. Bartlett nodded. “And I another, but I’m afraid the captain is unusually tall.” He sighed. “It is a challenge.”

Will rolled his shoulders. “I need at least three days to prepare. Let me know the minute you have word of… success.” 

Magistrate Clark motioned to the single vacant chair. “Come, Mr. Plunkett. We need another hand at the table.” As Will settled, the magistrate started the next hand. “Now, we had considered some post eventum exitus processes. Have you any suggestions, my friend? We anticipate substantial returns.”

Will tossed a random card into the trick. “We want thirty percent.”

The doctors said nothing. Clark looked over his cards and played a nine. “We have covered your materials thus far.”

“But not the risks.” One of the doctors took the trick. “We’ll be gone, all evidence turned to ashes.”

Clark nodded. “Very well. Thirty.” He took a swallow of tea and recorded the next trick. “Your exit?”

Will tilted his head . “Immediate. We’ll need fresh horses and supplies. I will provide the location.”

“How many horses?”

Will laid a card without looking. “Four. Supplies for five people as well. And,” he said, noting the game for the first time, “I have one more price. For myself alone.”

The three other men looked up. At Will’s left, Dr. Hall began the next trick. “You are bold, sir,” he said tightly.

“I am what you need, sir. What I am besides is of no consequence.”

Magistrate Clark laid a jack with a chuckle. “How you divide your shares is up to you. Name it, and we will see how bold you are.” Dr. Bartlett said nothing and laid a card down. 

Will surveyed his cards and made his selection, holding the card in his hand. “I want letters of introduction and recommendation from each of you, mentioning, in particular, my skills as an apothecary.” 

The magistrate and doctors looked at each other for a moment, and nodded in unison. Clark smiled. “You’ll have them by the end of the week.” The magistrate looked at his records of the game. “You do not seem to have played yet, Mr. Plunkett.”

Will nodded. “I have not yet, no. From you, Magistrate Clark, I would also ask that you watch for stolen jewelry. There is a particular piece which I mean to have returned.” He handed a drawing to the magistrate, who examined it and tucked it into his wallet. 

Will laid his card and took the trick. He played the king of hearts.

.

In days, the letters arrived. Will tucked them carefully into his saddle bag, wrapped in a waterproofed leather case. All other preparations were ready, so he waited.

.

A day later later, there was a terrible accident at a wood mill. A young man in his prime, strong as an ox and tall as a horse, was gravely injured. News spread that the lad might not last the night. He lasted three awful days. Four days after the accident, Will received a slip of paper.

_Material acquired._

—Dr. Bartlett

Will tossed the paper scrap into the fire and hefted the first of many boxes onto the work bench. It was time.

.

Will went out with Captain James Macleane on a two day patrol. By the time they got back, the boxes previously stacked in the workroom were gone, and rumors spread through the garrison that the new captain had an unnatural relationship with his manservant, for they disappeared for several hours on the first day of patrol, and were more than a bit disheveled when they returned.

No one noticed the many large, new birds’ nests strategically scattered through the military quarter, nor the delicate web of connections between them, when they returned from patrol.

.

Every member of a crew had their job. There were planners, artisans, inside men, money men, organizers, recruiters, connections, liaisons, maidens, Jezebels, smooth talkers, enforcers, and more, and they all had a place.

James was the inside man. Rebecca was the deception. French was the distraction. The magistrate and his men were the money men and connections. Will was everything else.

Then there was Belle. 

Will didn’t want her to be on the crew. Didn’t want her dancing on the edge of a noose or impaled on some bastard redcoat’s bayonet. A horrible sinking went through his belly at the thought. 

No, he didn’t want that. But what did he want? It had been so long since there was a chance at something more than survival and an occasionally full belly that Will had lost sight of his own wants. He saw James and Rebecca, how they adopted domestic bliss, but somehow their story did not apply to him, be it their station at birth, or their dramatic beginning. 

Will had always assumed he would have something modest, if anything at all, but never really thought beyond the hypothetical. He thought he had it once before but…

Will shook his head and cleared the scales. Each measure needed to be equal to ensure the timing on the rate of reaction. It would not do to become distracted.

But if an even small chance was taken, perhaps. She would have to be fully informed. Will did not believe in keeping anyone in the dark on a job. It only let to mistakes and misinformation. And that meant telling her about the plan. Everything about it. 

He took another length of muslin and cut it into manageable pieces. When he heard Belle arrive, he felt his pulse quicken.

.

The location was selected and the magistrate’s men were in place. Will, on an errand delivering medicinal teas, soap, and cleaning oils, double checked his preparations as James prepared to be handed his new command.

Rebecca ordered men around the house. “No, no, these trunks go to the coach and the furniture goes on the cart. Once you have it done I’ll come down from tea and inspect it. Then you can take it on to join Mrs. Stewart’s, and not before.” 

Rebecca spared one backwards glance at the coach. She’d had to pack very carefully to make enough room. Thank goodness she had enough matched luggage to accommodate it all. It had been a challenge, though, to demand four horses for the carriage. She nearly giggled with excitement.

.

Belle walked towards the stable as normally as she could. She left at her usual time, wore her usual clothes, and carried a basket with bread, some fruit, and some pieces of roasted chicken, but no more. Will had warned her not to do anything out of the ordinary.

She shooed the chickens into crates and loaded them onto a cart bound for market. The stable was more open, since the horses were away, and the chickens took every opportunity to rush into the open corners and flap up to roost on the half-gates. Once Madame Macleane left, however, Belle’s real work would begin

When the last chicken was caged and the market cart was gone, Belle tucked the payment into her apron pocket and headed to Will’s workroom. The piles of materials, crates of supplies, and long, winding lengths of cord were all gone. What remained, however, were stacks of muslin pieces, weighed and carefully laid out, and several large, round-bottomed flasks of golden, sparkling clear linseed oil. There were no instructions, nothing to leave behind by accident. Will made sure she knew what to do by having her practice every step with water instead of the oil. She practiced the day before from early morning until the curfew bell; she could almost do it with her eyes closed.

She just might have to close her eyes. Will warned her, carefully and over a cup of his rose petal tea, about what had to be done. It was unavoidable. The illusion had to be complete.

Belle kept watch over the cart on the side of the house from the stable and work room. One red coat stood guard over it as it was loaded with chests of drawers, trunks, crates, and so on. Finally, the two house servants came out and loaded some kitchen goods and a few baskets, and finally they hopped into the cart themselves. 

Madame Macleane looked over the cart and nodded, the plume in her hair fluttering glamorously. “Very good. I will see you both what the edge of town, or perhaps tonight at the hotel.” She turned to the driver of the cart and tossed him a coin. “Make good time, and don’t linger.”

Madame Macleane stood by as they drove away, waiting until they were on the street before turning to head back into the house. The afternoon light struck her dark hair as she turned and, looking directly at Belle, nodded.

It all happened so fast after that. Within ten minutes, Madame Macleane was gone and two men took up watch across the street, chatting casually while they looked at a pamphlet. It seemed that many more carriages than usual passed up and down the street as well, blurring which was which and making the big black coaches all run together.

Five minutes later, a new set of men arrived on a cart, showing her papers for removing the last goods. The men across the street touched their caps, and Belle let them in.

They must have been trained in the theatre, for Belle had to watch carefully to tell that the trunks were far lighter when they left than when they arrived.

She checked the clock… one hour to sundown. It was time. She took the first pile of muslin and flask of oil, and, with her hands trembling from excitement, began her work.

.

The sun had long passed its zenith, and rows upon rows of flimsy, lightweight tents cast long triangular shadows as the soldiers assembled and prepared to leave at dawn. Captain Macleane lit a lantern inside the command tent and paced.

Major Stewart reclined in his campaign chair and exhaled a thick plume of tobacco smoke. “Have no fear, Captain, my wife will send her messenger back to tell us when your wife arrives at the hotel. Tell me, Captain Macleane, are you ready for your first real command?”

James Macleane raised his eyes from the map Will was laying out for him. “I believe so, sir. It’s thrilling to be on the move finally, heading west to pacify that rabble out there.”

The major inclined his pipe toward Macleane in a casual salute. “Rabble is the word, though I admit I’m not sure about the thrilling part.” The major took another deep drag from his pipe. “You mentioned how skilled your man is at medicines and perfumery. How good is he, I wonder, at delousing and repairing a uniform?” Stewart laughed and slapped his thigh, completely unconcerned that Will was in the room.

“Yes, well-” James began, but Will tapped the map softly to draw his attention.

“Sir, if it please you, I have a ready supply of lye soap in my workroom. I can fetch it and be back before you know it.”

Macleane nodded sternly. “You should have packed it before, Plunkett. Off with you, and it’ll be lashes if you’re not back by sundown.” He looked back down at the map and dismissed Plunkett with a snap of his wrist.

Will Plunkett hurried out, watched by Major Stewart and Captain Macleane. The major propped a foot up and regarded his protégé. “You know, if he’s going to be with you a long time, you ought not to be too harsh with him. He’s never done anything like this before.”

James glanced up from the map, over the tents and towards the town, and the sharp outlines of the buildings etch themselves on his memory. He looked back down at the map. 

“I’m sure you’re right, Major. And yet, I suspect it’s going to be his finest hour.”

.

Plunkett grinned. The first plumes of smoke were visible in the windows and the call for fire would rise very soon, so he raised his arms, knowing that a dozen eyes were watching. Once French was in place, they could proceed.

.

A soldier twitched the edge of a tent flap aside. “Major Stewart, we have reports of unrest in the city.”

The major glared up from his wine. “Then quiet it. You know how to handle the colonists and the French.”

“Uh,” the man began. “Well, we don’t know which it is. He’s gibbering in broken English about the tyranny of the crown. We’re not sure what to do.”

“Take him and lock him in stocks. We’ll whip him in the morning.”

Macleane stood and looked towards the edge of the camp furthest from the main parts of town. At least fifty men were standing around as French, his stable man, yelled at the top of his lungs, parading about in and what was no doubt his finest brocade paired with a filthy wig, workman’s boots, and stained breeches. No less than two hundred were beginning to emerge from their tents to view the spectacle.

“Sir? By the look of him, the man is mad.” He looked at the soldier. “Does he have family? A home?”

“A daughter. He’s registered as a Frenchman, and all his papers are in order.”

Macleane stood. “Sir, if I may, I’d like to see this man, perhaps return him to his daughter. She is probably searching for him.”

Major Stewart looked up from his pipe. “Well, your heart gentled quickly. Fine. Guard! Release him to Captain Macleane’s custody.”

Once the paperwork was finished, and Macleane was about to leave, Will Plunkett barged into the tent, sweating, wild eyed, and gasping.

“Sir! Sir! My God, it isn’t to be borne!” he cried.

James caught Will in a well-practiced spin, for no one could ride fast and shoot with a turned ankle or sprained wrist. “What is it, man! Tell me, tell me!”

“Oh God, the house. The house! Fire!”

Macleane spun to face the major, Plunkett in his arms. “Did your wife’s messenger come? Did he? Please sir, tell me he came!”

The color drained from Major Stewart’s face. “No. No messenger, oh God, no. Go! Go, boy! I’ll send the fire company!”

.

Belle looked frantically up and down the street, watching the carriages to see the one with four horses. She spotted it, and took off running after it. It slowed and Belle leapt into the opened door.

“Madame Macleane, we go to Papa and Will now?”

Rebecca pounded the roof of the carriage and flung the preposterous feather from her hair out the window. “We have our part to do first. Hang on!” 

Belle fell back in her seat and smacked her head on the padded rear wall as the driver pushed the horses into a gallop. They skidded and bounced until they came to a rapid stop that sent the women tumbling over in the carriage.

Rebecca leaped out and Belle followed. A group of men joined them and immediately began pulling the luggage from the carriage racks as another two drove alongside with a cart.

Belle shook Rebecca’s arm. “You trust? Safe men?” The aches were not all healed from the last men she found herself surrounded by. “Will trust?”

Rebecca gathered her travel skirts and snatched a sack from inside the carriage. “Yes, we trust them.” She slanted her eyes slightly. “We have to.”

The trunks and bags were loaded onto the cart and covered with a layer of straw and burlap, then the two rough farm horses harnessed to the cart were unhooked and replaced by the team of four from the carriage.

“People will notice?” Belle looked around at the house-lined street. “See?”

“Oh, they see,” Rebecca said, sparing a glance at the magistrate’s house. “They rather demanded it, actually!”

Belle nodded. “Ah. Now find Papa?”

“Now we find your Papa.”

.

In the melee that followed the call for the fire company, no one bothered to notice the strange, winding route the men took to get back to the house, or the tiny, creeping flares they left in their wake.

In the melee that followed the wild crackles, pops, and colored sparks of ordinance, no one noticed that the treasury tent was left unguarded.

In the melee that followed the flames that erupted atop the stone soldier’s headquarters, no one noticed that a rather fine and sturdy cart, went missing.

.

In a wooded site near the communal meeting hall, a mile or so away from the center of town, Rebecca drew the cart to a halt, pulling at the reins. A circle of dark shadows stood over crates, hurriedly separating piles.

Belle jumped off the cart and ran, knowing one of the shapes all too well. “Papa!” She cried, and wrapped her arms around him. The reunion was cut short as swift negotiations went on around them. 

Within minutes, many small wooden boxes were stacked and carried away, and a few were left. Will hefted one, and settled it on the cart under the straw and burlap, followed by Captain Macleane and Papa doing the same, then once again as Will held a lantern up to a map.

“Piece of shite!” he yelled, turning the map about. “How we gonna get out if the map is such crap as this? French!”

French took the map and started speaking rapid fire French at Rebecca and James, who worked to translate, talking over one another and making a confused riot of speech. Will scrubbed at his face in frustration. Belle thought quickly.

“Stop!” she yelled, and snatched the map out of Will’s hands. “I speak. You quiet.” She pointed to Will. “You no drive. Hide. All hide.” She climbed into the cart and shoved the trunks to make a small space, then slung the burlap over it and spread the straw on top. “Get in. No one care French and girl leave. Care much if dead men drive cart. In now!”

James, Will, and Rebecca all climbed into the cart and laid under the burlap camouflage. It was dark with almost no moon, and if any eyes bothered to look away from the fire in the town, they would see nothing more than a cartload of hay.

.

In the confusion of smoke, no one really noted the carriage, stripped of any cargo and partially burned, with the cut harnesses. However, when the sun rose the next day, and the residents picked through the surprisingly small amount of damage, they certainly noticed the blackened bones of three bodies in the remains of the only house that burned.

.

_New Orleans, three months later…_

The air here lay over Will’s skin like wet silk, and there was nothing that wasn’t lush and green, despite the winter. He never liked winter much– never cared for the biting cold in his hands as he worked, the lonely chill in his feet when he tried to sleep, or the aching once he was warm again.

Today promised the end of that. 

_Have you ever been in love, Plunkett?_

Will tied his simple cravat, uninterested in the multilayered confections preferred by the local Parisian influence. His concession to the day was the finely tailored clothes he’d allowed James to purchase for him. Will insisted on buying the ring by himself, though.

.

Belle grinned and bounced on her toes with excitement as Will held up the quill, took a deep breath, and signed the contract in front of him. Then Belle and French, who he still couldn’t bring himself to call ‘Maurice’ despite everything, took the quill and signed as well.

“Is exciting, yes? You have your own shop now! No more working with horses!” French held out his hand and the two men shook vigorously. As soon as French stepped back, Belle leapt at him and wrapped her arms around his neck.

“You did it, Will,” she whispered into his ear.

“No,” he answered, lifting her up until her feet left the floor. “We did it.”

.

It took weeks, but the empty rooms above the shop were soon a home. Belle had carefully purchased fine carpets and sturdy furnishings while Will worked in the shop building worktables, display cases, and hiring a glassblower to create everything from jars to new distillation equipment. 

The natural salesman and cultured French gentleman that he was, French was far too busy running the shop to tend horses anymore. While Will worked his magic in the work room, French worked his in the storefront. Before they knew it, _Mercy Apothicaire Ange_ l was a thriving and trusted shop, known not only for its medicines and specialty salves, but for their discretion and willingness to offer credit or accept offers of work in lieu of coin. 

It wasn’t long before Will had two apprentices, and was considered the finest teacher and chemist in Louisiana. 

In the afternoons, Will exchanged his work clothes for a waistcoat and went for walks with Belle, sometimes delivering packets of medicine or taking orders. One day,when the flowers bloomed with their lush tropical perfume, he paused to sniff at a delicate bloom.

“It is beautiful, no?” Belle grinned, knowing he was imagining extracting the flowers for soaps or perfumes.

Will smiled and leaned back, regarding the white blossom. He plucked it, cleaned the stem, and tucked it over her ear to peek out from her curls.

“There,” he said, satisfied. “Now it is.”

.

Belle signed for the small parcel and tucked it into her basket before turning for home, greeting a few neighbors and familiar faces along the way. Will, scribbling notes at his desk, stood once she opened the door to the parlor and brought it to him.

He took her basket and held up the little box. “What’s this?” 

She shrugged. “Don’t know. Many many postmarks.” Belle pointed to all the stamps and notes written in it. “Well-traveled box!”

Will took a knife and slipped it under a corner. “Let’s see.” The blade parted the water-spotted and stained paper and Will pushed it away. A wooden box remained, and he lifted the lid. Inside, slightly yellowed and smudged newspaper, clipped and carefully packed, lay folded. Will lifted one out, unfolded it and began skimming headlines.

_Wild Night of Fire: Hellfire Reigns on Town as Soldiers Prepared Departure_

_Chaos Hides Loss of Funds, King George Demands Investigation Of Army_

_General Abandons Western Campaign to Focus on Halifax_

And finally, in a corner of one sheet was a small article. As Will read, he handed Belle the box.

_During the clearance of rubble from the burned house, a horrifying discovery was made. The bones of three people, two men and one woman, were discovered in the remains. Local physicians have identified the remains as those of the residents of the house, the Captain and Mrs. Macleane, the former having returned upon hearing of the fire in an effort to rescue his young wife. Efforts have been made to contact their families in England to inform them. The remains of the third belonged to a servant, who left no family, and was of no consequence._

Will began to laugh. He threw his head back in triumph, careful not to damage the newspaper so James and Rebecca could read them as well. He never regretted giving them his share of the gold, and now they never had to worry again.

“I’ll have to send a message to the new Mr. and Mrs. Maclain. They’ll enjoy reading–” At Belle’s silence, Will looked up. 

Belle was staring into the box, trembling. Will went to stand at her side, took the box gently, and turned it over onto his palm. Metal touched his skin.

Belle fell to her knees. “Oh, Will… Mama’s necklace! How?”

One last bit of paper fell out of the box. It was his hand drawn rendering of the necklace, drawn from memory, and given to the magistrate. It was creased, dirty, and spotted with oil, but Will kissed the scrap like it was scripture. He lifted Belle from the floor and held her, cushioning the trembles that threatened to shake her apart.

Because he, Will Plunkett, _was in love_.

“An angel, Belle,” he said, kissing her cheek. “An angel found it.”

The End.


End file.
